


Deaths Aren't the Only Casualties

by Dancing_Burnt_Toast



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Divorce, Drinking to Cope, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Parent(s), Mentions of Cancer, Minor Original Character(s), Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Phil Needs a Hug, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Post-Bahrain (Agents of SHIELD), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Pre-Bahrain (Agents of SHIELD), Pre-Canon, Subtext, Time Skips, Wakes & Funerals, What Happened in Bahrain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 01:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4159626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancing_Burnt_Toast/pseuds/Dancing_Burnt_Toast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She stayed by his side after the service, enduring the line of “Sorry for your loss,” a conveyor belt of sympathy.<br/>"We're partners, Phil," she had explained. "Whether that's on the mats, in the field, or whatever comes your way, I'm right next to you."<br/>****<br/>When everything had been simple and him doing the same for her had merely been a hypothetical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deaths Aren't the Only Casualties

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: This work contains references to mental illness caused by psychological trauma, mentions of death and cancer, a very brief reference to suicide, descriptions of off-screen violence, some profanity, and a short scene where a character vomits.

**1992**

It made his brain go fuzzy and his mouth taste like pain for a few seconds. He had to crouch on the mats for a moment, pressing a palm against his face.

“Shit, are you okay?” Melinda asked. She softened her fighting stance.

“I’m just getting started,” Phil replied, getting back up and shaking out his hands.

A grin replaced any concern that had been on her face. Melinda raised her hands again, her ponytail bobbing behind her.

Another agent appeared at the doorway. He said there was a call for Phil Coulson.

Phil grabbed a towel to wipe some of the sweat off his hands. “It might be good to put some ice on this.” He smiled before excusing himself.

 

Melinda saw Phil take the call through the gym’s window.

Phil’s expression became concerned and confused. _"My mother?"_ Melinda saw him saying through the glass. He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. He released a deep breath that made his entire body fall.

She took a few steps out of the room towards him because she couldn’t bear to watch him deal with this alone.    

"Okay," he replied, his voice quiet and tight. "Okay,"  he repeated. His eyebrows furrowed as he asked _"How long?"_ with the tone he reserved for interrogations. "Okay," he said again to the disembodied voice on the other side of the line. "I'll be out there as soon as I can." Phil put the phone back on the receiver. His face and hand clenched around the towel in his hand betrayed his casual shorts and t-shirt. He looked to Melinda in silence, his mouth a grim, thin line.

"What happened?"

…

"Pancreatic cancer," Phil explained in more depth on the flight.

Children shrieked and businessmen got drunk in the background.

"They didn't catch it until later. It spread." He pretended to be interested in examining the SkyMall catalog tucked into the seat in front of him. "They didn't even go to the trouble of chemo. She's-" He coughed to hide the burning in his throat. "Too far gone." He turned to face her. "You didn't have to do this."

"We're partners, Phil," she put a hand on his shoulder. "Whether that's on the mats, in the field, or whatever comes your way, I'm right next to you."

He brightened slightly and put his hand on hers. They would arrive in Wisconsin in less than an hour. "We're going to need to make a few stops first."

…

They got a hotel room in Manitowoc and took turns sleeping in the bed. When they weren’t busy, Phil showed her his old high school, the lake where he swam many a summer, the house where he had grown up.

When they arrived at they house, they stepped out of the car for a moment. He didn’t have a plan for what they were going to do after that point. Even if he did, it would have been dashed.

An older woman approached them, calling out "Phil?"

It took Phil a second, but he recognized her as Mrs. Barath. She had lived next to his family since before he was even born. "Mrs. Barath" he greeted, taking her hand. He hadn’t had a conversation with her lasting longer than thirty seconds for at least five years. But her presence was still comforting. “Ann Barath,” he elaborated to Melinda, “Friend of the family.” He gestured to Melinda “And this is Melinda May.”

Mrs. Barath took her hand and gave Phil a knowing look.

“A friend and colleague,” he clarified, voice direct.

"I'm sorry about your mother," Mrs. Barath said. "I brought her some flowers the other day in the hospital. She seemed-" she hesitated, wanting to soften the description without outright lying. _"Okay."_

Phil nodded without a sound.

"Have either of you eaten yet today?" Mrs. Barath chirped, abrupt.

"No," Melinda replied. Phil had promised to take them to “a great place uptown,” but had gotten sidetracked in his walk down memory lane.

"My word, you must be starving. Come over and I'll make you two something."

"You really don't have to do that," Phil replied.

"It won't be a problem, sweetheart," she insisted. She unlocked the door to her house.

…

Phil and Melinda sat at her kitchen table and ate their bologna and cheese sandwiches.

“It’s been a while since you visited, hasn’t it?” Mrs. Barat asked. She indicated to a pitcher of iced tea.

“Yes,” he replied, shaking his head to her offer of iced tea.

“And your work is-”

“In the government.” His reply had been oft-rehearsed.

“How is that?” the middle-aged woman asked as she poured herself a glass.

“Boring,” Phil answered.

“Very boring,” Melinda clarified.

As Phil contemplated the hand-painted lazy susan on the table, he remembered the dozens of casseroles Mrs. Barath had given them when Phil was nine. These gifts ensured that his mother didn't need to cook for almost a month after his dad died. And with that came the sudden and unpleasant realization that the anniversary of his father’s death was approaching. Faster than he’d ever want to think about.  

…

The floor in the hospital was impeccable, white and shiny. A woman in scrubs, holding a clipboard led them to the room.

An older woman lied in the bed. She was surrounded by beeping machines and several flower arrangements. Her pale eyelids fluttered open and she looked over to them. "Phil!" she cried in a voice that seemed too strong for her body.

"Mom," he replied, coming to the side of her bed.

"I'm so glad..." she gave him the tightest hug her arms could muster. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, his forehead. "You're here."

"Glad to see you too, mom." His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Phil’s mother was still rather warm despite her infirmity. Her face had been sharpened by age and illness, framed by short brown hair. She did resemble her son, excluding her light brown eyes. Melinda rationalized that Phil’s blue eyes must have come from his father.  

Phil’s mother turned and noticed Melinda stood a foot away. "And who is this?"

"Melinda May, a friend," Phil explained. "We went to the Academy together." His mother nodded in acknowledgment.

Melinda handed her a bouquet of flowers. "These are for you."

She took the flowers, closing her eyes before remarking, "Irises, my favorite."

…

"I'm so thirsty, Phil," she said, her voice more breath than speech.

“I’ve got you, mom.” Phil gave her a plastic cup of water from the tray.

She took a few sips before being taken by another fit of coughing. When finished she said, "I'm going to get to see your father again."

He nodded and his throat felt tight.

"He'd be so proud of you, what you've done, the man you grew up to be." She took his hand. "I don't always understand what you're doing. Stuff about serums and soldiers and saving the world. But you're helping people and keeping them safe. That's all that matters." She squeezed his hand.

"I love you."

The corners of her lips rose. She ruffled his short brown hair and rested her cold hand against his cheek. "I love you too, Phil. I'm so proud of you." Her hand went slack.

Phil shut his eyes. _"Mom?"_ He asked in the the desperate tones of a man who knew he talking to himself. _"Mom?"_ He repeated.

Melinda came to his side without a word, looked to his face and he looked back. There was a split second between that moment and the moment when he shattered that she took him into her arms. His jagged breath was hot with tears, his body shook.

…

Then there was after. A brief, small service. Phil Coulson an only child born to two only children, so there were few if any members of his family in attendance. But there were others; neighbors, friends of his mother whom he didn’t recognize who had to explain they went to church with her or something like that.

Phil didn’t explain Melinda’s presence. She wasn’t sure if it was due to his own emotional exhaustion or plain apathy of how people interpreted their relationship

Melinda stayed by his side after the service. She endured the line of _“Sorry for your loss,”_ a conveyor belt of sympathy. She received tender handshakes and occasional consoling hugs from people apologizing for the death of a woman that Melinda had met, at the most, twice before her death.  

They shared a bed that night. Melinda held him, his face buried in the crook of her neck.

"I miss my parents," he murmured, his voice so small.

She rubbed the back of his neck in reply, the stiff hair brushing against her fingers.

She woke up to a cold bed. It wasn't until she got up she found a still warm styrofoam cup of coffee and a short note:

 _"Had to take a walk_ _-Phil."_

...

**2008**

A slow day at S.H.I.E.L.D. Phil chatted with Agent Sitwell about work and their plans for the weekend.

Melinda tapped his shoulder, pulling him to the side to ask "Are you free after this?"

"Why?" He asked, noting her apparent restlessness.

She paused and pressed her lips together before stating "I'm late."

Phil was confused. "But you were out for the drill today even before I-" His mouth was open for a long moment before a humbled _“Oh,”_ escaped his lips as he understood the significance of her statement

Melinda wore a small, coy smile. Phil adopted an expression that said _"Wow, I'm an idiot."_

"Have you gone to medical to get tested yet?" He scratched the back of his neck and kept his voice even in an attempt to recover.

"I wanted Andrew and I to find out at the same time. So I need to buy a test." She explained. "Will you go with me?"

He was rather touched by the fact she trusted him enough to include him in this. "Of course."

…

They went to the pharmacy together, walking by cough syrup, condoms that are "ribbed for her pleasure," "ribbed for his pleasure," "exxx-tra thin," and discounted Easter candy. Melinda picked two pregnancy tests. Phil reappeared after a few moments with two packages of powdered donuts.

Melinda’s brow knit in confusion before Phil could explain “Misdirection. It’ll make it less awkward.” As they walked to the checkout he added “I also was in the mood for donuts.”

The cashier was an older woman with messy hair. As she rang them up she noticed Melinda’s anxious excitement and beamed at them. After they paid (Phil promised to pay Melinda back for the donuts) the cashier gave them an affectionate “Good luck, you two.”

As they walked out, Phil realized that the woman must have engaged in a bit of analysis and assumed he had been Melinda’s boyfriend or husband. He had been guilty of doing his as well, he was a secret agent after all. Sometimes he and Melinda would do it for fun, sitting in cafes and making elaborate conclusions about the people walking by. A haggard looking young woman was a dog walker by day and a drug dealer by night, a piercing covered metal-head was actually another agent under cover, an aloof looking hipster was being pressured by his parents to work on the family cranberry bog when he really just wanted to be an art therapist.

He became grateful that their close relationship brought more notice than the fact only one of them was wearing a wedding ring. If that had been the case, he'd probably be assumed to be her _(mister? Phil knows that's not the right word but mistress isn't either. Other man? Hm, he could deal with that)_

He drove her home and stopped in front of her house. Phil handed her a package of the powdered donuts. "How was I supposed to eat both of these?" He smiled and she laughed, they gathered each other into a tight embrace.

"Good luck, Melinda," he said, giving her an affectionate pat on the back.

She left his car to go into her house.

Phil didn't drive away until he saw her unlock her door, walk in, and saw her silhouette greet her husband through the window.

…

He got a call late that night. He rubbed his eyes and answered with a groggy "Hello?"

Melinda's voice rang out "Hey, Phil."

That woke him up a bit and with hesitation asked "So... How'd it go?"

"False alarm," she said with a kind, even tone of voice that didn’t quite hide her disappointment. "Sorry for calling so late, I thought-"

"The suspense would kill me otherwise?" Phil suggested.

"Yeah " she agreed.

"It's all right," Phil assured. "There's always next time."

…

"We all have to make difficult calls," he told her, his voice steady.

Melinda still couldn’t look him in the eyes.

"It's part of the job. We make the best possible choices we can make at the moment and we have to keep moving forward." He moved to put a hand on her shoulder and she flinched from his touch. "It's the only thing we can do."

"I killed her," she said again under her breath. Phil didn't need to see her face. He could perceive the regret and shame that radiated from her every pore.

"It’s not your fault,” he reiterated once again. “Several S.H.I.E.L.D. agents would have died without your actions. I totally understand you might need to take a break from field work, but you’re good at what you do.” He approached closer, “You’ll be able to bounce right back, I know-”

“I saw a little girl get shot in the head, Phil,” Melinda shouted, exasperated. “You don’t ‘bounce back’ from that.” She folded her arms around herself, drawing into herself.

“I’m sorry,” Phil’s voice was muted and he put a hand on her shoulder. "You're an excellent agent, Melinda May. A great wife, friend, and you're going to be a fantastic mother."

Melinda’s eyes shot open as she at him. She pulled away. _"No,"_ she muttered, voice biting. _"Don't."_

Phil looked back at Melinda, expressionless. Before he could formulate a reply, Melinda had her own.

"How the hell could I ever trust myself with a child?"

…

 _"I need to see you,"_ she said. Her voice crackled through the other side of a telephone line.

"Melinda? Where are you?" Phil asked, hoping she could hear him through the static.

"I'm a couple-" Melinda hesitated and had to start over. "Can I come to your place?"

"Yes," he replied, terse. Meanwhile his brain screamed: _"Of course. You're always welcome. Please be okay."_

"I'll be right over," she said right before hanging up.

He heard a knock at his door a few minutes later and checked his peephole (he was still a secret agent after all) to ensure that it was simply Melinda May, albeit a faded and almost unrecognizable Melinda May.

She walked through his doorway, her footsteps the loudest voices in the room.

He released a charmless: "Hey."  Because he knew it was so clear she would have no room to deny it, he asked, "What's wrong?"

"It's Andrew," she explained, collapsing onto one of the cushions of his sofa.

"I thought you two were getting counseling," he said. He asked if she wanted anything to drink. She did. She had found him at a bad time. The the only beverages in his fridge were a six pack of beer and a single chocolate flavored protein shake. He brought the beer into the room, gave her one and took one for himself, twisting off the cap.

She took a few famished gulps before confirming. "We were in counseling.” She paused. “It didn't work."

"But is everything ok-" he started to ask.

She replied, her voice flat and crushed, "I left him."

 _"You left Andrew,"_ Phil said. His shock made it a statement as well as a question.

She finished the beer and grabbed a second one. "He wanted a family. A happy, normal life. I-” She took several swallows. “I can't give him that."

"Melinda-" Phil tried to say, but she interrupted him.

"I'm holding him back, Phil. You know what happens whenever I see kids? All I can see is her face and think about how I couldn't save her. I can't save any of them." She went to take another bottle and Phil put his hand on top of hers, she pulled away from his grasp. "Who the hell would want to subject themselves to that?"

"Melinda, you're a great wife, and one of the finest agents I've ever seen. You can't say that-"

"I can't even do that anymore." She was shaking. _"I'm fucking broken, Phil."_  Her dark eyes were wide and her skin pale. Her thin voice started to say: "I'm going to throw-"

"Bathroom," he said before leading her there. _(Just in time, thank God)_ He held her hair back as she vomited. There was little in her stomach other than cheap alcohol. Her empty stomach retched through much of it.

She raised her head from the toilet seat.

"You finished?" He asked.

She nodded in reply, eyes tired and spittle dripping from the sides of her mouth.

She grabbed onto his arm and he led her back to the couch. He managed to find some lukewarm bottled water.

She sat, still and quiet. Phil waited for her to say something, do something. She suddenly grabbed him like she was drowning

It took him a moment to register that she pressed her face into his shirt and she was sobbing. He put an arm around her, using the other to  stroke the back of her head. He ran his fingers through her long, black hair.

…

Phil woke up the next day on the couch in a damp and wrinkled t-shirt. He got up and noticed someone had left  something on the table. A styrofoam cup of coffee, already cold. He drank it all. When he went to throw it out, he saw a piece of paper in the garbage can. It was ripped into thin, ragged strips. He couldn’t read it.

…

Phil visited Melinda often after her transfer. He brought cups of coffee. He told her about field work, terrified new agents, the surprise birthday party they had for Maria Hill. She said little in reply, every so often punctuating her silence with the click of something being stapled. On occasion, Phil would say something, not always something funny. But it would make Melinda release a slow and rare smile.

In those moments, Phil could see the woman who had persuaded him to drop water balloons from the top of the technology building with her during their first year at The Academy, the woman who didn’t let her unrelenting toughness get in the way of compassion for those who needed it, the woman he knew he’d take a bullet for and vice versa.

Phil had seen agents been destroyed by the work they did. Sometimes that meant death, sometimes that meant years of guilt and pain that ended in a noose and a kicked over chair, and sometimes that meant putting a bullet in someone who once called your colleague. But Phil knew with every fiber in his being that this hadn’t happened to Melinda May and it never would if he could stop it.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading :)  
> I'm ALWAYS open to constructive criticism (and if I've made any typos or other grammatical errors, please let me know so I can fix them)  
> Please give kudos/comments if you enjoyed it.


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